


unholy

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, gore-ish imagery, may be seen as dubious consent, obsessive mairon, possessive Mairon, vaguely written porn, yes this is the best i can do when it comes to canon-set angbang porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:38:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A union of the flesh and the joining of the souls, dirty and blasphemous and all-consuming. Boundaries obliterated, an addiction. Melkor and Mairon, together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unholy

**Author's Note:**

> somewhat of a follow-up to "shatter" because it further explores some ideas found there

Mairon's lips close around the tips of Melkor's fingers and, unaware, he drinks unto himself the poison bleeding through cracked-charred-soiled skin; and in truth, Melkor wills to stop this, to break the sick display, but he feels in himself a powerlessness which easily overwhelms his senses. Naught but a soft moan escapes him as he allows his Lieutenant the privilege of touching him so intimately, a sound of pleasure startled out of him when Mairon's split tongue lavishes the aching finger pads with indecent, ardent caresses. Ever dedicated is Mairon to the task, but soon enough does he pull away from pleasuring his Master this way and he looks up at Melkor while still on his knees, with his eyes of molten gold and copper, bright and wide and greedy. There are black stains of venom around his luscious, plush lips, drizzling down his chin, but he does not realize. He cannot realize.

Melkor wants to lick away at the poison, to take it back into himself, thus cleaning it away from his Lieutenant's fair form. He moves to lean down, but Mairon stands and holds him, and his grip is ever tight. Unable to do as he desires, Melkor bares his teeth, growls in wordless warning, but heedless of the danger, Mairon laughs; it is a low, rumbling sound deep in his chest. It is a wildfire devouring everything on its path, that laughter. Unstoppable. Untameable.

'My Lord,' Mairon says, his voice burning like a river of flowing lava, but more, and what a vision he makes! Standing naked before Melkor, his prone form dark and adorned with gold, he is a sight more beautiful than any. A sinful creature he is, sensual and intense, and curious of all that a body made with flesh can feel: from that he finds a deeper understanding of pleasures not yet comprehensible to Melkor. But Mairon is a patient teacher, and willing: and this reversal of roles, this queer sense of being not above but under the Maia in status, it makes Melkor's head spin and his legs tremble. Were it not for the tight embrace Mairon holds him in, certainly he would collapse into a heap at his Lieutenant's feet. This feeling, this weakness, it should be terrifying, yet in the arms of Mairon, Melkor allows himself to explore what it is that his body of flesh is experiencing.

Cold air of the stone chamber in the tallest of the fortress' towers; a contrast to the nigh searing heat of Mairon's dark-skinned form against his own, the air causes curious reactions: Melkor feels his nipples harden as though touched, his limbs shiver, his breath quicken. Mild do these pleasures seem in comparison to the exhilaration that accompanies the touch of Mairon's clever hands _anywhere,_ yet still significant and fascinating and worth pondering.

'Stay focused,' Mairon commands and his audacity sends a shock down Melkor's spine, an electric impulse that urges him to fight against it, to disobey, to regain his stolen control of the situation: but he does nothing, he sighs, he allows the air to escape him through parted lips. And he attempts to concentrate on the closeness of his Lieutenant, on the fingers which map out the plains of his white body, and his eyes slide closed when Mairon trails his calloused hands down to his hips.

'No, look at me,' the Maia demands, and when Melkor is slow to react, Mairon bites down, breaking skin: and it is a shock of sensation, spreading from the collarbone down to Melkor's abdomen in a pulsating wave. What starts out as a sharp kind of pain becomes pleasure along the way, as though transformed, as though it was always intended to change thusly. The Vala looks upon his Lieutenant with eyes widened in what he recognizes as lust, and he is rewarded with a kiss to the spot which has been bitten.

As all of Melkor, his blood has no colour of its own, no hue, yet in contact with the skin of Mairon's lips it becomes a dark shade of red. It mixes with the black remnants of poison which only Melkor can see; and Melkor longs to have those lips on himself, marking him everywhere.

'Mairon,' he whispers urgently.

'Do not speak,' the Maia says and silences any protests that could have followed by pressing his soft lips to Melkor's. It tastes like fire and ash, which must be inherently Mairon, for Melkor knows his own essence to be as tasteless as it is devoid of colour, devoid of smell. A pleased sound escapes him at discovering the taste of his Lieutenant and it is swallowed in the kiss which turns demanding and deep, tongues meeting and entwining in a dance that is wild and dangerous. And Mairon presses yet closer against him, pushes him back against the cold stone wall, keeps kissing him like this even as it is too hot, too overwhelming, too-

'Aaah,' says Melkor when the kiss is broken and when Mairon returns to his knees in front of him, when the Lieutenant smirks up at him and leans down to lick at the inside of his thigh. How good does that one simple caress feel! The two pointy tips of Mairon's tongue leave a wet trail in their wake, up and down on the white skin; the hot trail of saliva cools off against the cold air, heightening the sensation. And yet even this pleasure pales in comparison to when Mairon's plump lips close over the burning need between Melkor's legs, when the whole shaft in enveloped by Mairon's mouth; Melkor cannot contain a drawn-out moan which is ripped out of him at the experience, cannot stop his knees from buckling under him, cannot stand upright: but Mairon supports him easily, holds him up, hooks one of Melkor's legs around his shoulder for better leverage. He hums softly around his mouthful and looks up to see with his own eyes the effect the vibration has on the Vala; and Melkor delivers, for he throws his head back against the stone wall, mindless of the pain or the dull _thud_ that resounds upon impact, and his hands clench into fists, and unclench, and Mairon guides them to his hair.

Melkor grasps two fistfuls of the fiery tresses, pulls at them when Mairon swallows around him, bites down on his own lower lip to stop the degrading noises he keeps making; and his Lieutenant does not stop the assault on his senses, oh no, and it is too good when Mairon does _things_ with his tongue and scrapes at the flesh with his sharp teeth – the pain, oh, the pain mixed in with the pleasure is _exquisite –_ and then, all of a sudden, a new sensation-

A finger, even lower, circling a ring of muscle, massages there, breaches the tight opening with just the tip, then retreats; and Melkor does not understand, but his body does, and he needs, this, more, something. He gasps, and again, and he wants, he tries to push his hips against the finger, but Mairon holds him in place, and Melkor groans, frustrated; madness, this is madness, but he wants it, he craves it, he is at the mercy of his Lieutenant and it feels so depraved and so good, and-

'Aa-ah!' He moans when Mairon finally pushes the finger in, too fast, painful, _intoxicating_ , when the Melkor's entire body contracts and something in his abdomen tightens and he is so high, so, something, his eyes roll back, his mouth opens in a voiceless scream, and this, yes, yes, yes!...

The next thing he is aware of is Mairon kissing him; and he is no longer upright, but sitting nigh in his Lieutenant's lap with his thighs open wide. The kiss is slow and sensual, and Mairon takes his time kissing him, exploring him, tasting him. Melkor can feel Mairon's own need, his shaft stiff and hard against the Vala's stomach, and he touches it with his left hand, and why is his hand trembling. Mairon moans low into his mouth, breaks the kiss, wraps his own fingers around Melkor's wrist.

'My Lord,' he whispers, licks his lips. 'Oh, yessss, so good,' he sighs and leans in to bite gently at Melkor's collarbone, right across where he has bitten before, and the pain is but an undercurrent to the pleasure which sears Melkor's entire being.

There is a finger still inside of him, and Mairon crooks it and pushes it in and pulls it out, hitting a spot which is right _there_ every time, and it feels so good it almost hurts; and he thinks, he calls out, he begs,

'Mairon,' and his Lieutenant smirks and removes the finger entirely.

'N-no,' Melkor protests, but he is powerless to do anything under the intense look Mairon is giving him; it is a look full of promise, a look which says, _let me control this and you will be rewarded_. And he does, he allows Mairon to do as he pleases, allows himself to be helpless against the desires and urges of his Lieutenant. So Mairon pushes him back, spreads him carefully over the cold stone floor, then leans against him, kisses his jaw, thrusts his hips slowly, sensually against Melkor's open legs, and it feels good, it feels, it-

'I wish to take you,' the Maia whispers, bites down on the lobe of Melkor's ear. His tone speaks of blasphemy, his eyes speak of rebellion: against the nature of things, against the laws of the world, against the roles they both hold in the hierarchy of chaos; but his hands are distracting and his lips know too well how to make Melkor's mind blank, and under Mairon's caresses Melkor is reduced to naught but desire, and he moans,

'Yes, yes, _please_ ,' and Mairon bites him again.

Then, unexpected, comes the pain, stronger than the one before, when Mairon pushes into him, breaches him, slick and big and hot, but that pain dies away when they are joined and Melkor's eyes stare wide and unseeing at nothing, his lips fall open; he scratches at the stone floor with his claws, staining them with venom, he sobs – and Mairon is still upon him, unmoving, eyes locked on his form in feverish adoration. This, like a fire burning inside, like a flame that does not yield, this Melkor craves, this torture or bliss, Mairon within him, as close as he can be, and yes, this is so good, so pure, so raw, Mairon, his Mairon, his own, his precious, his beautiful Mairon, his-

'I love you,' the Maia sighs into his ear, licks at his neck with his clever, clever tongue, kisses at the juncture between neck and shoulder. 'So much, so much, my Lord,' he continues to whisper, and then he starts moving, thrusting, slowly, deliberately. He touches wherever he can reach with his hands, he brushes his fingers against Melkor's nipples, drawing out a pleased hiss, he scratches at the delicate white skin, leaving marks which vanish immediately after. Oh, how he wishes they persisted, to show everyone that he belongs to Mairon, to remind him, to be reminiscent of this moment of perfection when they are joined into one, so close, so close, yes, yes, more-

The pace is slow and maddening and painful and blissful and Melkor cannot _think,_ cannot wrap his mind around what he is _feeling_ , and Mairon kisses him again and again; soft lips - split tongue - sharp teeth – everything. Gasping breaths: and he does not need to breathe, does not need to inhale the foul air of the fortress, but yet the body craves it, the flesh, it has become addicted and not partaking in this nonsensical behaviour is painful, and Mairon knows, he knows, he covers Melkor's mouth and nose and chokes him, long, long, kisses his jaw and thrusts inside of him, and this cannot last, cannot. Be. Melkor is breaking apart, he must be, and this, he will not survive this; the flesh is too fragile to go on, to keep up with Mairon's elaborate brand of torture, with the hot flames of attention it is lavished with. Too intense, too, too bright, a flaming inferno devouring him in a chaotic dance and-

He screams, or he does not, he wants to, his entire being has been consummated by that fire and Mairon allows him a staggering breath, two, before he claims his mouth again in a kiss that would bruise. He demands, he takes, he controls every fibre of Melkor's existence, and where once was order now dwells insanity and where once was adoration now is a greedy sickness of desire,

_obsession,_

and there, _there_ , Mairon's eyes lock with his own, wide, and in the purity of white around the gold and copper iris, a swirl of black poison, alive, whirling like the darkest smoke on the water surface; and Mairon is perfect, perfect, beautiful, beloved and – and changed, and he glows, and the dark wildfire of his being claims the last of Melkor's bare soul, searing, burning, scarring-

And then, trembling in the arms of his Lieutenant, Melkor shakes his head in violent refusal of the weakness that was wrought upon him, of the desires forced on him. He sleeps for days after, imagining that the heat of Mairon's body lingers even after the Lieutenant is long gone from his chamber. When he awakens, he has a thought which he then fulfils into being: and from Mairon's touch and from Mairon's desire of him are birthed the first dragons, and they are beautiful and fiery and malevolent and _greedy, a_ nd the world trembles in its foundations in awe at the spawn of the unholy union between Melkor and his Maia.

And Melkor tells himself, he is content.

 

**Author's Note:**

> next time on Melkor's Madness Trip: who knows? i make it up as i go.


End file.
